Madman, Warlord, Khal of Khals
by admiralakbar1
Summary: "If God has willed it and fate has decreed it, then who am I to deny them?" From the depths of the Dothraki Sea rides an army. They fly banners that belong to no lord, they speak a tongue known to no translator, they fight with weapons no army can defeat, and they follow a man who shall not know peace until the world itself bows before him.
1. Prologue

**Moro**

Moro's stallion crested the hill, hardly considering it a challenge. Beyond lay a thousand hills just like it, each obscured by thich fields of grass. The morning sun had just creasted the horizon, reflecting the dewdrops on the grass like the shimmering waters upon the Womb of the World. The sun had still not fully vanished the night's chill, and Moro rubbed his arms for warmth. Qavo had come riding this way earlier, yet he was nowhere to be seen. Wild as he were, Qavo was never the sort of boy to abandon his brother like that.

Chiding his brother's recklessness, Moro bucked the reins and continued onward into the gently sloping valley beneath him. Legends said that before the Dothraki had ruled the land, it was filled with mountains, but the Tall Men had torn them down and scoured the rubble for traces of gold and gemstones. Once, before Qavo was born and Moro could remember, a milk-man of Qarth arrived in the khalasar and demanded to be shown the way to the "mountain of gold". However, all he found was a back full of steel. Oh, how their father would laugh every time he retold the story!

Moro's reminiscing was suddenly ended by a single crack in the distance, several hills beyond. It was as if a man was smashing rocks together or forging an arakh... or Qavo was causing trouble again. Without a moment's hesistation, Moro urged his horse to ride faster and headed toward the source of the mysterious noise.

Over the next hill, he could see Qavo desperately running towards him... without a horse. Had Qavo, in his utter foolishness, managed to fall off his horse and wound it? His leather vest and face were smeared with dust, and he would occasionally stop to clutch at his left arm. Yes, he had definitely fallen from his horse. Moro knew not whether to laugh at the sight or take pity on his brother for the shame he would bring upon his name.

When Qavo was near enough, he hurriedly climbed up behind his brother and urged him to turn back immediately. Moro had seen fear in an animal's eyes enough times to know when a person was the same, and Qavo was full of it. He just hoarsely yelled over and over again about the milk-men and their warlocks killing his horse. Moro was starting to grow concerned that his brother had hit his head during the fall as well.

As he turned back toward the khalasar, Moro heard the sound of many hoofbeats growing rapidly closer. A glance behind showed a great many horse riders waving swords and wooden cudgels; some were as pale as the milk-men, while others looked like the traders of Yi Ti or the N'Ghai, and others still had the look of Dothraki. As evidenced by the uproar of whoops and war cries, it seemed that they noticed him, too, and with no good intention. Moro needed no further motivation to ride as fast as his horse could go.

The air was filled with loud cracks, like the ones he had heard before. Moro hazarded another glance behind him toward his mysterious assailants. Their clubs seemed to be the source of the racket, but he could not see the strangers hitting anything to make noise. Even stranger, smoke would billow from the ends of the weapons! Moro tried to urge his horse to ride even faster, but it could not. With every passing second, the unknown warband drew nearer and nearer.

Moro heard Qavo trying to shout something over the cracks, but he didn't fully hear it. When he turned around, he found his saddle empty. It was as if nobody had ever sat there, save for a splash of red dripping off the horse's flanks. Behind him, Moro could see his brother's body tumble to a stop, before jolting as the riders passed over it.

Moro's horse let out an unearthly cry and dropped, sending him crashing into the soil. He tried to scramble to his feet, only to find that his foot was in great pain and could not support any weight. Filled with fear, Moro closed his eyes and waited for the end with what little dignity he could muster. The riders had come to a stop and formed a circle around the fallen horse and rider. For a moment, there was only the sound of wind drifting through the grass sea to break the silence.

When Moro opened his eyes again, he was next to a white stallion. Upon it rode a slender milk-man, his hair fiery-red in the light of the rising sun and eyes that burned with an undying range words could never convey. Moro did all he could to meet the man's gaze, even as the milk-man raised a silver arakh and swung downward with all his might.

The man re-mounted his horse and the riders passed on, leaving two bodies to be swallowed up by the sun-drenched waves of the Dothraki Sea.


	2. Chapter 1

**The Soldier**

As the sun dipped between the hills, Dmitri Grigorievich Alioshin dipped his head downward and cupped a hand in front of his mouth. The other carefully held a flickering match to the tip of a cigarette.

It was the last of an ancient little pack, hand-rolled by some shopkeeper thousands of _versts_ away. Although Dmitri would hardly consider himself a smoker, he still kept the pack close. On the steppes, the promise of a few hours' calm was a precious commodity. Most had been given away as favors and bribes. Some had been to calm his nerves before a battle, and one was blown out of his hand by a snowstorm last December. Dmitri never forgave himself for that moment of stupidity.

The last cigarette, Dmitri swore, would only be lit on one of two occasions: the day he died, or the day he left Mongolia for good. He figured that appearing in a strange foreign land was as good a reason as any.

Guard duty was hell tonight. It was a moonless night, and he feared that something was waiting behind these unfamiliar hills. It was a fear that gnawed at his very soul. At least it was warm in this land for January, almost like it was still summer. In the distance, Dmitri could see distant plumes of smoke casting shadows over the stars. The mysterious tribe they encountered that morning had stored all their supplies, spoils, and women in a large cluster of yurts on the top of a hill. The Division had taken great joy in 'liberating' it. The Cossacks, if they were anything like in Siberia, would subject him to their drunken whooping all night.

Dmitri knew that although they had followed the Baron with utmost loyalty, it would easily be strained. He could not speak for the Buryats or his fellow Russians, but he knew well already not to trust many of the others. The Mongols would only follow as long as their 'living Buddha' continued to sing the Baron's praises, the Cossacks were only obsessed with wine and women, and the Japanese only followed the promise of gold and dead Chinese. Without the Chinese to demonize or a Mongolia to liberate, Dmitri wondered if it would be long before the Baron and he were left to rot on the steppe.

It was not the soldiers who concerned him, but rather the officers and tagalongs. Colonel Suharev seemed like a decent enough man (as decent as any man who fought under the Baron could claim). He and Dubovic were among the few not fully under the Baron's sway. Laurentz and Rezukhin may have been his closest lapdogs, but Colonel Sipailov terrified him most. He had once seen the man whip a Russian's back to the bone for drunkenness on duty, and had hanged a Mongol soldier for the same. Similar mercies were shown to towns aiding Red partisans along the way into Mongolia. While Dmitri and many of the White cadets followed the Baron out of necessity, Sipailov and his ilk followed out of devotion. They were a cult and the Baron was their god, though nobody would admit it.

He did not know what to think of the other foreigners. The doctor, Klingenberg, seemed almost as mad as the other butchers. Ossendowski, the Pole, kept himself close to the Baron, always urging the more reasonable path. Whether he was another convert or simply pragmatic, Dmitri could never tell. Colonel Hiro Yama, leader of the Japanese regiment, spoke to few men besides his fellow officers; yet according to them, he was a coward waiting to flee at the first chance. The two Englishmen kept to themselves and talked little with the Russians. He never trusted men who only confided between theirselves; it stank too much of conspiracy. Thankfully, he had not seen either for the past three days.  
The sound of hooves broke Dmitri from his thoughts. It was one of the Buryats, riding out to relieve him of guard duty. " _Privyet_ ," he greeted in broken Russian, "Your watch end. I watch now."

Dmitri bade quick thanks and rode back toward the camp. When he returned, he found the decaying remnants of revelry. The ground was littered with discarded bottles and discarded women, occasionally punctuated by a drunken Cossack stumbling to his tent. The odor of blood, alcohol, and unwashed bodies hung heavily in the air. Even though he had killed his fair share of men and women, Dmitri found it hard not to be overwhelmed with pity and disgust. Perhaps that was why he was assigned to guard that night, so that he would be spared the view. He found it far more likely that the Cossacks didn't want to share.

As he stepped into the row of tents that acted as a makeshift barracks, one of the Russians on duty saluted him. "Captain Alioshin." Dmitri smiled and blearily returned the salute. It was calming to see that there were those who kept up tradition. The Tsarists still called him captain, but the title was as worthless as a Soviet banknote in Siberia. Would a captain be sent on guard duty alone? Then again, he could call himself lucky. Almost all the former Imperial officers had earned the Baron's ill favor in some way. Their punishment was the worst gear, the cruelest officers, and the most degrading and deadly missions. Yet they still followed.

Most of the tents were filled with sleeping men, yet women's cries could be heard from several. Dmitri shuddered to think that such barbarians were the closest thing to reliable men. Mikhail, Victor, Mariana, and everyone else he had known was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps they were separated in the chaos? Had they even travelled to this foreign land? Were they even alive Dmitri soon staggered into his tent, undressed from his uniform, and lay on the cot. Despite the questions dancing in his head, sleep came easily that night.

He awoke to chaos. Men were running, yelling curses, trying to grab their rifles and loot from earlier in the night. Officers were shouting orders, but to deaf ears. There were even several horses, stampeding mindlessly through the crowd. Dmitri glanced to the right, noticing a column of red shooting into the night sky. _Fire._

In a flash, he had pulled on his old boots, thrown on a jacket, and ran toward the inferno. Some fool had probably broken a lamp or forgotten his camp fire, and now it had spread down the lines of tents. His suspicions were soon confirmed upon his arrival. At least a dozen tents were aflame, piles of wax-covered canvas serving as excellent kindling. He heard a woman's scream coming from inside, but the fire was spreading so quickly that he knew there was no way to reach it. He could not imagine a more horrible way to die.

Dmitri grabbed the nearest man who looked like an officer. "Get every man you can find to grab a bucket," he barked, "and find a source of water!" The half-drunk fool nodded furiously and ran off. Meanwhile, Dmitri worked as hard as he could to pull down nearby tents and prevent the fire from spreading further. It was probably a futile effort, but it was better than running away.

After what seemed like an eternity, men began running in with buckets of water. They had found a stream nearby and were rapidly making use of it. A chain was soon formed, and within an hour the fire was retreating. It was not until dawn that it was reduced to a pile of smoking ash and embers.  
As he tiredly put down the bucket, Dmitri stared at the ruin before him. Nearly three dozen tents were destroyed, and probably as many lives. He sat in the dirt, watching the last of the flames sputter out. There was only one question on his mind, one that filled him with terror:

 _What will the Baron do about this?_


	3. Chapter 2

**The Officer**

"...twenty-eight Russians dead, twelve of them Cossacks; three Chakars dead, two Buryats dead, one Japanese dead, six local women dead. Forty-five Russians wounded, thirty-two of them Cossacks; five Buryats wounded, one Khalka wounded, two Japanese wounded, three local women wounded."

Leonid Sipailov set the bottle of vodka with a heavy sigh. _Lackwits_ , he thought, _I lead an army of fools and lackwits._ "Very well. Find out whose tent the fire started in, and bring him to me at once," he ordered the sergeant, who hastily stepped out of the yurt. Thirty-four. Thirty-four soldiers dead because some inbred, shit-brained Cossack horse-fucker forgot to turn off his lamp at night! "Damnit!" He brought his fist down on the table. "Damnit!" And again. "Damnit damnit DAMNIT DAMNIT DAMNIT!"

Leonid paused when he noticed a small trickle of blood on the side of his hand. He wiped it on a napkin before sitting down dejectedly. _What will I tell Roman?_ The Baron was usually a calm man when displeasing reports arrived from the front., but sometime he forgot the value of the adage 'don't shoot the messenger'. At least he would rather be the one to tell the Baron the final death toll rather than one of his underlings and appear incapable of relaying information.

After one final swig of vodka, Leonid picked up the sergeant's written report and walked off to the Baron's yurt. It was a grand affair, lined with silks and painted leather, and topped with yellow banners, sent to him in secret several months back by the Living Buddha, the Bogd Gegen. The Baron himself had once said that he would prefer smaller quarters, but that it would be an insult to reject the Living Buddha's gift. He compromised with his spartan tendencies by only filling it with unpainted wood furniture and a single curtain around his bed.

As Leonid neared the yurt, he heard the sounds of frantic argument from within and paused. Doctor Klingenberg was inside, ranting about how the conditions he was working in were "unprofessional" and that he was being "worked to death". As the only doctor in the Asiatic Cavalry Division, Klingenberg's life was guaranteed, and he knew it. Leonid never knew whether the Baron tolerated the doctor's slights, but he made no outward sign of it either way.

When the doctor had finished his diatribe, there was a minute of silence. Leonid anxiously pressed his ear to the yurt's wall to hear the Baron's response. At least, he heard "Fine. Only treat the men who will be fit to work within a week. Give strychnine to the rest. Dismissed." The doctor hastly ejaculated his thanks and hurried out of the tent, not bothering to even acknowledge Leonid's presence.

Taking his cue, Leonid calmly stepped in and solemnly bowed. "Your Excellency."

The Baron was sitting on a wooden chair, wearing the patchwork remnants of his Imperial officer's uniform. The blue in it seemed to bring out the intensity of his watery blue eyes, a fervor which never seemed to diminish or dull. "Sit, Leonid. What news do you bring me?"

Leonid sat down and silently handed over the sergeant's report. He could feel those eyes, following him, probing him for any sign of weakness or dissent. He knew that the Baron would think twice before harming his friends and chief subordinates, but after hearing what he did to Stepanov for being late to muster... nothing was certain anymore.

The Baron silently read the report, and Leonid to see the rage steadily growing in his eyes. At last he threw the sheet of paper down on his table. "Have you sent for the man who started this?"

"Yes, Your Excellency."

The Baron did not seem pleased. "Round up every man whose tent was burned that did not help fight the fire. Dispose of them as you will. Dismissed."

Without another word, Leonid stood up and walked out of the yurt. Everything had gone better than expected. As he walked back to his yurt, he heard the moans of dying men from the camp's makeshift infirmary. It seemed Klingenberg had his work cut out for them.

When he arrived back at his yurt, Leonid told a passing sergeant of the Baron's orders. Much to his satisfaction, they were soon completed within the hour. Nine men stood before him on a wooden platform, all of them Cossacks. There had been two more, but Klingenberg had already gotten to them. One had preemptively confessed, in hopes that his superiors would be more lenient. He should've known better by now.

The punishment was simple enough: fifty strikes on the back with a wooden cane. They hardly reacted when Leonid wrapped the cane in cloth. They did react when he dipped it in kerosene and lit it. And they howled like mad when he started swinging. Several dozen onlookers had gathered around when he started, which soon grew into nearly the entire Division. They were transfixed, equal parts awestruck and horrified by what was unfolding in front of them. _Good. Maybe if the pigs remember this, maybe they'll learn for once and we won't have to do this all over again._

Leonid was brought back to focus when the Cossack stopped crying out around the thirtieth swing. Klingenberg quickly scurried onto the stage, placed a finger to the soldier's limp wrist, and stood up. "He's alive," he announced with a mixture of solemnity and annoyance, "only unconscious."  
A bucket of water from the stream was brought up and dumped on the man's back, and he awoke with a pained yell. It was soon followed by twenty even louder cries.

The whimpering man was at last carried offstage, his back a mess of torn muscle and blood crisscrossed with cracked, burnt skin. The way Klingenberg looked at him, it was obvious the man would not be fit to work within a week. Leonid took care to douse the fire on the end of his cane, reapply the cloth and kerosene, and light it once more before calling out "NEXT!"

The next man was of a less durable stock. He had remained conscious until the fortieth swing, but when Klingenberg checked his pulse, he only shook his head. The following three were even more pathetic, none of them staying alive past the fortieth stroke, let alone conscious. At least the next one was able to make it through all fifty while staying awake.

As the last one collapsed to the ground, Leonid extinguished the cane, wiped his brow, and sauntered off the stage. The final toll was five dead on the stage and four in the hospital. Only one, the one who didn't faint, had a fighting chance of surviving the week without a surprise strychnine dosage.

Night was beginning to fall upon the camp. As Leonid fell in his chair, he considered undressing and preparing for bed, but he knew that the Baron would probably call upon him again. The man was getting restless. It had been three days since they arrived in this strange land, and yet there was not one new order for the Division. The men were growing restless, and he could feel it; hell, even the Buryat cow-herders camped five miles away could feel it. So, he opted for a glass of vodka and a worn old biography of Peter the Great.

In less than an hour, his prediction came true. A sergeant, the same one who brought him the casualty report that afternoon, stepped into the yurt and cleared his throat. "Colonel Sipailov, His Excellency Baron Ungern requests your presence in his tent."

Leonid calmly dismissed the sergeant, finished his vodka, and strolled out into the camp. He always found that there was a certain form of tranquility in the camp after justice was administered. There was no dissent, no backtalk, no idle chatter, just the sound of labor and nature. Of course, one of those shit-brained Cossacks would probably steal or rape or kill something he shouldn't have the next day, and Leonid would have to start all over again. But at least he could enjoy it while it lasted.

Finally, he arrived at the Baron's yurt. Leonid noticed several of the other officers, Russian and Mongol alike, filing in before him. He stepped inside to find that every single leader was there, circled around a great round table and murmuring about _something_ important. Rezukhin, Ossendowski, and Djambolon the fortune-teller were huddled closest to the Baron, whispering everything from strategic advice to what the latest pile of burnt ox-shoulders meant for his future.

What truly fixated everyone's attention was a large piece of parchment on the table. It was a map of some sort, Leonid knew that much, but that was where his knowledge ended. It was all written in an alphabet he had never before seen, and of a land that was very clearly not known on Earth. Scattered around were scrolls of star-charts, some of which had Russian scribbled on the back. They clearly corresponded with a large red 'X' at a point on the northern half of the map.

The Baron raised his hand and all conversation ceased. "At this time yesterday," he announced, "three of Bair Gur's scouts came across the horse-drawn cart led by a native of this land. Its owners attacked with bows, yet were defeated and relieved of their possessions. Chief among them were these." He took the opportunity to sweepingly gesture toward the table's contents. "Using the star-chart, Ferdynand was able to figure out our location."

Ossendowski then took the opportunity to speak up. "Although we do not yet know the language they speak, I was able to figure out their basic symbols for directions and numbers. About nine hundred versts to the southwest lies a city, one that the map's former owner was traveling to. Apparently it is a hub for traders, so it will hopefully be stocked with food, ammunition, and other resources the Division needs."

The Baron nodded in agreement before resuming his speech. Leonid could see that the Baron's eyes were burning with even more intensity, which meant that he was creating a strategy. "We cannot stay here and rely on supplies forever. I promised my men the riches of Urga, and I will not break my word. Gather your men and send out the orders:

Tonight, we ride."


	4. Chapter 3

**Dmitri**

Dmitri Alioshin was regretting not saving his last cigarette.

He was camped out on a ridge alongside the rest of the Division's artillerymen, waiting for a signal down the mountain from Colonel Turbatov. He could hardly keep his eyes open for more than five seconds, what with the wind constantly whipping up snow and dust in his face. Even in the summer, the mountains were still frigid.

"How much longer?" one of the other ensigns cried out.

"It shouldn't be much longer," Dmitri responded, "at least, unless my luck continues..."

"What was that?"

"Nothing!"

And Dmitri quietly returned to his brooding.

The worst problem with waiting in a dangerous place, as Dmitri soon found out, was that it was impossible to relax and let one's mind become unfocused. A momentary lapse of attention, slip of the tongue, or missed precaution could very easily mean the difference between life and death. On the other hand, dwelling on all the possible dangers would make it likely that he would freeze up and make a mistake. This meant a very boring wait for Dmitri. He tried counting how many snowflakes fell on a certain rock (he lost count), or how many stars were in a particular corner of the sky (he lost count), or how many of the people around him would kill him if it meant that they would get a slightly nicer pair of boots the next day (he lost count). So, Dmitri eventually resigned himself to staring at the same mountains he'd been staring at for the past eight hours, hoping against hope that something remotely interesting would happen.

After a short eternity huddled against the rocks, the long-awaited signal arrived. A flair shot into the moonless sky, bathing the mountain in red light for a brief second before fading into darkness. And with that, the men all came alive. Dmitri found himself scrambling to push an ancient 87-millimeter field gun that was in service longer than he was alive around the ridge and into view of the city.

For some reason, he found it very similar to how he imagined Urga to look. The city lay in a wide, bowl-shaped valley at the end of a mountain range. A wide dirt road flanked with monuments or statues passed through the city, splitting it in two. Some sort of temple or palace, mostly made of wood, sat where the road ended at the mountain. To Dmitri's left lay what looked like some kind of foreign quarter, filled with squat stone buildings and wooden storehouses. A massive plaza lined with dormant carts and stalls branched off the road. Several buildings lay on the other side of the road, but they were narrower and tightly clustered together.  
To the right, however, lay what could only be described as a sea of felt and hide. Yurts, thousands of them, stretched from the road to the end of the valley. If there was one yurt for every man and his family, Dmitri estimated that there must have been forty thousand people, easily putting it on par with Urga. They had truly found civilization.

As the flare's red glow faded from the sky, smoke started to pour from the foothills surrounding the valley. The night before, the Baron had sent out riders to construct bonfires all around the city, so that on the night of the invasion, they would appear an immensely larger force. In the distance, Dmitri could make out the hundreds of men rushing down the slopes under the cover of darkness.

At last, all the field guns were in position. The largest of them all was a 152-millimeter howitzer, French made. The other artillerymen jokingly named it "Olga" and even sketched an image of an angry _babushka_ on it in charcoal. Dmitri's 87-millimeter seemed like a child's toy by comparison. A very old child's toy.

He snapped back to attention when he heard a lieutenant start barking out orders. Dmitri hastily opened the breech of the field gun and jammed in a shell inside. The spotter, a stout Tibetan named Tenzin (did the Tibetans have any other names?) that Turbatov counted among his most elite men, started rattling off coordinates of troop movements in the yurt city. Dmitri ever-so-carefully cranked the two wheels to swivel the barrel into the right position, stopping the moment Tenzin's hand shot up into a tight fist.

For a moment, the Asiatic Cavalry Division's artillery detachment were as silent as a ghost.

"FIRE!"

The roar was deafening. Dmitri had not heard an artillery piece fire in months, so it was certainly a rude wake-up call as to how loud half a dozen really were at close range. For a moment after the firing, all he could hear was a faint buzzing, followed by the dull thuds of the shells hitting their mark.

Immediately, the city below woke up. Lanterns were lit, tents were opened, and people started swarming like ants. Those below who ran against the crowd were obviously the soldiers. While a good soldier would always keep his cool in times of panic, it also made them incredibly easy to spot for an experienced eye.

Tenzin started listing more coordinates, probably of a place he thought the defenders were flocking to. Dmitri spun the wheels again, stopping precisely at the level that was necessary, and waited for another signal from the lieutenant.

"FIRE AT WILL!"

Once again, the field guns erupted in an earsplitting boom, followed by the distant blasts of landing shells. Even from the rear of the field gun, Dmitri could see plumes of smoke drifting from the city.

So, he fell into a familiar routine. Tenzin would state the location of an enemy, Dmitri would dial it in, the field gun would fire, Dmitri would reload, and Tenzin would survey the damage for a moment and recommend adjustments for the next shot.

Slowly, the shots began drifting closer and closer to the center of the town, as the defenders pulled back toward the great wooden temple. Some of the other artillerymen had fired at the market quarter of the city, but were quickly admonished by the lieutenant; they wanted the city's riches to be intact for the soldiers to loot.

Some of the spotters began whooping joyfully; the Division's soldiers were entering the city proper, and the defenders must have been only several hundred at that point. As their numbers dwindled even further, the beleaguered defenders circled around the temple. It had not been hit by a single shell as of yet, but Dmitri knew the time would come.

At last, he heard the lieutenant bark out, "ALL UNITS, AIM FOR THE WOODEN TEMPLE!"

The firing stopped, and the only noise breaking the silence was the squeaking of wheels, as the barrels all slowly shifted toward a single target.

Finally, silence again.

"FIRE!"

The silence was vanquished by the roar of cannons once again. Dmitri could have sworn that some rocks further down the mountain had slid off due to the force of the blast.

It was followed a moment later by the impressive _crack_ of a thousand pieces of wood shattering at once. When the spotters looked down, they claimed that nothing remained of the temple but ash and splinters. The sounds of battle were fading quickly, and soon the sound of cheering soldiers drifted up on the wind.

Dmitri then had to start the painfully slow process of rolling the field gun back along the ridge and down the mountain. Then men were undoubtedly unhappy, but they were sated by the promise of riches and loot in the city below.

After what seemed like an eternity of trudging and pushing, they arrived at the base of the mountain and hastily abandoned the artillery with some tied-off horses nearby. Dmitri bolted as fast as his legs could carry him to the main road, which was lined with cheering soldiers.

A ragtag group of yurt-people, mostly women and children, marched along. Many wore hide and rags, while others wore nothing, but they all were bound and gagged. The Baron led the procession atop his white destrier, his red silk cloak adorned with Imperial Army patches and medals. Alongside him rode Rezukhin, the Pole, and Bair Gur the nobleman. In that moment, the Baron not only appeared as a general, but as a conqueror, a Caesar of the steppe, a man bold enough to stare death in the eyes and smile.

The impromptu parade came to a stop in front of the ruins of the temple. Tied up in front of it were four brutes of men. Their shirtless bodies werved as a testament to every bullet wound, every knife slash, every bruise they suffered that night. Large ponytails, some of them adorned with ribbons or bells, hung ponderously from their heads. Behind them lay the bodies of eight similar-looking men, clearly having fallen in the battle. Their heads were removed from their bodies and mounted on poles behind them.

The Baron held up a hand, and the entire crowd went silent. "My men," he shouted, as everyone waited with bated breath, "I promised you three days of victors' spoils in Urga. This is not Urga, but it shall do." Excited cheers were already spreading through the crowd.

"DISMISSED!"

And all hell broke loose.

Dmitri found himself being swept along by a sea of rapacious soldiers. Most were headed to the women huddled in their yurts, but Dmitri knew the market would be less crowded and more lucrative. And so, he carefully worked upstream through the throng and emerged on the great road.

Though not as many those seeking the spoils of flesh, there were still at least several hundred soldiers looting the markets. Stalls were overturned, crates were broken, houses were looted, women screamed... it was almost too much to bear.

Dmitri had little interest in the wine and jewels the other soldiers clamored for. Instead, he found himself drawn to the smaller market on the other side of the road. Fewer soldiers had gone there than anywhere else, but a crowd was quickly forming.

The crowd parted, and out from it rode... a _zebra_? Unless some enterprising trader had painted stripes on his horse's sides, it was a zebra. Dmitri had only seen zebras in old textbooks from school, and he was enthralled.

That moment was quickly broken when a rowdy Cossack, a bottle of wine still in his hand, tried to run up from behind and jump on the zebra's back. He received a powerful kick in the chest for his troubles, and the zebra galloped away unmolested.

The crowd hardly paid attention to their comrade, who lay unmoving on the ground, and resumed their looting. One even pulled the wine bottle from his limp hand.

Dmitri silently skulked through the small market, as men around him raped and pillaged to their hearts' content. Occasionally, he bent down to pick up a gold coin that a careless Cossack had dropped, but that was the worst looting he participated in.

He turned down an alleyway, pausing when he heard a man swearing in Russian before suddenly stopping mid- _blyat_. He peeked inside a nondescript door at the end, finding what could only be described as butchery.

Two men, a Russian and a Tatar, lay on the ground, their throats slit. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling were splattered with blood. The wavering shadows thrown on the wall by the lone candle made the bloodstains dance in the dark. In the back corner of the room lay a girl, hardly a woman. Her cloak, though already red, was soaked crimson. Dmitri could hear her panicked breathing from across the room.

She was frantically reciting something, a prayer from the sound of it. To what god, Dmitri had no idea, nor did he want to know. She was staring at him now, pointing a dagger at him.

Dmitri took a step forward and held up his empty hands as a sign of conciliation. "Madam, I-"

"You don't belong here!" she cried out in what sounded like English. Dmitri strained to listen; he only knew the basics of the language, but the woman thankfully kept her sentences short. "None of you! The Lord never showed you to us!"

Before he could say another word, she drew the dagger across her throat in one clean motion. Dmitri stood frozen with shock; he needed a moment or twoto process the whatever it was he just witnessed.

The woman lay still, panic frozen on her face. Dmitri silently bent down to pick up the dagger, which had fallen out of her hands as she bled out.  
After wiping the blood off it, even he could see that it was of exceptional quality. The handle was made of... wood? Bone, perhaps? It seemed to have a jet-black enamel, and was polished until it shone. It felt cool in his hand.

The blade itself was another story. It was slightly shorter than his hand from wrist to fingertip, and it was made of... some sort of steel. It had a dark, smoky color, filled with infinitely small whorls and ripples. In the candlelight, the patterns seemed to swirl and multiply.

 _A fine piece of work_ , Dmitri thought and he slid it into his pouch. _And wickedly sharp_ , he added on as he sucked at the drop of blood welling on his thumb.

He quickly scoured the room and the three bodies, taking what few things of value he could find: a small bag of gold, silver, copper, and even iron coins, a small silver pendant with a red jewel in the middle, a bottle of white wine, and a pair of boots from the Tatar. Though Dmitri detested the idea of killing people for the sake of theft, he had fewer qualms about taking from the already-dead.

He stepped out into the alleyway, silently uncorking the bottle of wine. No sooner had he closed the door behind him when tongues of fire shot out from beneath the door. When he turned back, the room and everything within it had been reduced to ash.

 _This land becomes stranger every day,_ he wondered as he wandered back onto the great road.

The main road was deserted, save for a few men. Most of the other soldiers were either focused on their looting (as seen by the pillars of smoke and occasional gunshot), or had settled into a ransacked bed for the night. Even fewer were poking around the smoldering remains of the temple.

Dmitri took a step through a grand doorway, the tallest structure still standing. Although the temple was burned down to the foundation stones, Dmitri could tell that it was once the grandest building in all the city. It had the outline of a great cathedral or hall, and stood three or four stories tall. In the ruins, he could see the stumps of wooden pillars carved with images of horses and battles. There was no altar or shrine that he could see, just a raised platform with the fragments of chairs. Perhaps they only housed priests here?

As he walked along the edge of the platform, taking care to gingerly avoid the occasional burnt skeleton, his foot came down with a solid _clunk_. Stone floors did not go _clunk_. Dmitri frantically got down on his knees, brushing away the layers of ash and debris concealing the floor.

At last, he found his prize: a wooden trapdoor, scorched (but only on its surface) by the blast. A hard tug revealed that it was locked. A hard kick to the board the lock was bolted to remedied that. The lock fell through, accompanied by a flurry of splinters.

When Dmitri peered into the hole, his eyes were met by the shimmer of gold in the moonlight.


	5. Chapter 4

**Robert**

Robert Baratheon, first of his name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, opened his eyes and looked around his bed. Cersei was already up, and had been awake for some time; her end of the bed (which was as far away from his end as could be) was empty and cold, and sunlight was streaming in through the windows. It felt like far too long since they last made love (if he could assume love was involved). When was it last - maybe a year after Tommen? Of course, he was so drunk that time he could hardly remember it at all. Hells, he might've passed out halfway through.

Robert sighed and heaved himself upright. Cersei had always been a frigid bitch toward him ever since their wedding day. _Lyanna wouldn't be like this._

He swung his feet over the side and sat up, glancing one last time at Cersei's empty spot on the bed. _Lyanna wouldn't sleep so far away._

He lumbered out of bed and over to a beautiful dresser, one with mother-of-pearl and golden inlays. _Lyanna wouldn't need all this fancy shite._

He tried to put on fresh smallclothes, finding that the tunic fit even tighter over his gut than before. _Lyanna wouldn't let me end up like this._

He slipped on his doublet and called a servant to fasten it from behind. Cersei's dress - a horrendous crimson affair festooned with Myrish silk and Lyseni pearls - was missing, meaning she was wearing it to court today. _Lyanna never would've worn something with so many frills. She'd probably wear her riding leathers to court if she could._

As he finished getting dressed, Robert grabbed a carafe of wine and poured himself a glass. _Lyanna wouldn't be driving me to drink like this._

He slouched out of his chambers and down the hallway, finally arriving at the solar. Cersei and the children were all gathered around the table breaking their fast, though it was clear they were almost done. _Lyanna wouldn't go ahead of me like that._

Cersei - Gods, she was wearing that hideous dress - looked up from her plate and put on one of her false little smiles. "Good morning, husband." _Lyanna wouldn't lie to my face._

The children followed suit with a half-hearted "Good morning, father." _Lyanna wouldn't turn my own spawn against me._

"Morning," Robert grumbled, settling into a chair and accepting a plate from a waiting servant. Soft-boiled eggs and a rasher of bacon, with warm bread, jam, some cheese, and an ever-present goblet of wine. Dornish red today, by the taste of it.

The family ate in silence, occasionally glancing at one another. Several times, Robert saw the children glance at each other, or Cersei toward the Kingslayer in the corner, in a silent cry for help. Something, anything, to escape this gauntlet of awkward silence. _I wish_ my _brothers were close to me like that._

As Robert cleaned away the last spot of eggs on the plate, he noticed the rest of his family sitting silently, plates cleared away, watching apprehensively. _Bugger me, do they still insist on it?_ "Dismissed," he mumbled, trying to stifle a belch. With no time to spare, they rapidly stood up and stepped out of the room.

Finally, all that remained in the solar was Robert, Ser Jaime in the corner, and a couple servants cleaning the table. _Lyanna wouldn't let me feel so lonely._

Without warning, the door opened up and Lancel Lannister rapidly walked up. To be honest, Robert was a bit uncomfortable at the thought of having another bloody Lannister with him every moment of the day. At least the sprog was half-competent as a squire, and it got Cersei to shut up.

"Y-your Grace..." Robert tried to stifle a laugh at hearing the boy's voice crack. "The Small Council will be meeting soon and requests your presence." He departed with a quick bow and scurried off somewhere else. At least the boy knew how and when he should make himself scarce.

Robert grumbled, sipped the end of his tankard, and sat up. He had a long walk ahead of him, one that he hoped wouldn't be necessary for another few hours. Seemed he had overslept. _Lyanna wouldn't let me oversleep._

He walked out of the solar, down the hall, and started winding his way down the arduously long spiral staircase running through one of the towers of Maegor's holdfast. When he was sure no servants were around, he even permitted himself a scant minute to sit on the stairs and catch his breath. Why did Maegor have to make his towers so damn _tall_? Mayhaps he was compensating for something? Robert permitted himself a chuckle at the thought.

At last, Robert emerged from the holdfast and started walking across the castle grounds. It was hardly as busy as it was after one of his tourneys, but it was hardly deserted. Riders practiced fighting while ahorse, archers slew hundreds of poor hay bales, and guardsmen eagerly sparred with one another using blunted swords.

Unsurprisingly, the Goldcloaks fared rather poorly against the Redcloaks during their melee training. Robert never liked Tywin Lannister; the man always seemed like he was finding the best way to kill you in your sleep. But Robert sure respected the ability to maintain a decent army, which Tywin had in spades. The Goldcloaks were a sad lot who seemed like they'd get winded fighting a child. How did his city guard become so shite?

At last, Robert crossed the bailey and entered the one of the myriad adjoining buildings that held the Small Council chambers. Varys was already sitting in his seat, tittering about something in one of his damn scrolls he always seemed to be getting. In one swift motion, he crumpled it up and let it arc gently into the fireplace.

Robert hated the eunuch; it wasn't a roaring hate like he led for the dragonspawn, more of a passive hatred, always lurking under the surface whenever he saw the man. There sat a man who gladly served the Mad King before his sudden 'change of heart', always stared at Robert like he knew some delicious rumor about him, and held mannerisms designed to irritate him in every way possible. Those soft silky robes, that pale face powder he used more than Cersei, that gods-forsaken high-pitched giggly _laugh_. What kind of king would willingly hire a man who smells like lilacs?

 _Probably Renly._

Robert reached the elaborately-carved chair at the end of the table and settled into it, ignoring the unsettling _creak_ that it made. If it were up to him, the Spider would be on a boat to Essos and missing his sharp little tongue by dawn. However, there was the issue of finding a Master of Whispers as skilled as Varys. Why did it seem like all the men he hated were the ones he needed most?

At last, the other members of the Small Council filed in. Pycelle was (unsurprisingly) the last to shuffle over to his seat; even Ned was moving faster, and his leg was wrapped in bandages. The Grand Maester smelled like dry parchment covered in cheap whores' perfume, so Robert breathed a sigh of relief when the doddering old man took a seat on the far end of the table.

At last, the meeting began. Baelish was the first to speak, expounding on the importance of updating the grain tariffs so that it provides a reduced burden on barley farmers from the northern Crownlands every alternating nameday (or something to that effect). While Robert struggled to keep his eyes open, he subtly lifted his hand and made a 'come closer' gesture. Lancel stepped up with a goblet and a flagon of Arbor Gold; a moment later, the boy was back in his corner and his Grace found the Small Council meeting to be far more tolerable than before. Another task that the sprog was useful for.

For almost an hour (and almost a flagon of wine), the meeting continued to be business as usual. The members would debate something of trivial importance, while Robert would debate how quickly he should finish his wine. Occasionally, he'd be pestered by someone until he grumbled some indication of approval for a law. Suddenly, he heard someone mention the word 'Targaryen'.

"What about the dragonspawn?" Robert asked, his mind entirely focused on the conversation.

"Well, your Grace," Varys replied, suppressing a giggle at his ruler's shift in focus, "it seems that you may rest easier tonight. My little birds have told me that Viserys Targaryen was killed by Khal Drogo himself. Supposedly, it was because he tried to take his sister back for himself." The Spider actually seemed to have a twinge of sadness about the little twat for a second. Maybe it was because his little birds failed to do the job themselves? Either way, dead is dead.

Robert felt a smile beginning to creep across his face. "And what about the whore and her horselord groom?"

"Nothing."

Robert's smile vanished. "...nothing?"

"Nothing, your Grace."

"What do you mean _nothing_?" Varys, despite his treachery and tittering, seemed to know everything about every important person within a thousand leagues down to the last time they shat. For Varys to know nothing about an event seemed impossible.

"I know nothing of what happened after, your Grace." Varys's neutral expression turned into that of a child caught stealing sweetmeats by his parents. "She rode out with Drogo and his khalasar several days after Viserys's death. After that, all my little birds in Vaes Dothrak went silent, like they had flown south for the winter."

"Or perhaps the horselords went on a bird hunt," Baelish japed. His only reward was a half-hearted chuckle from Pycelle.

"Mayhaps," Varys replied. "I have heard reports from a very reliable source that merchant caravans on certain routes along the Saath have been vanishing into thin air as of late."

"Perhaps it was a rogue Khal?" Lord Stark posited, while Robert silently thanked the Seven for letting Ned intervene in the conversation. "If Lord Varys has no evidence that a Free City or any other lord sent an army to kill the Dothraki, then what other explanation must there be?"

Grand Maester Pycelle started to speak in objection before descending into a fit of coughing, subjecting the poor table to a torrent of spittle. "Except, Lord Stark, the Dothraki _*kaff*_ consider Vaes Dothrak to be their sacred city! Their holy of holies! It would be like a King burning down the Sept of Baelor!" He then paused to take in a wheezing breath.

Baelish seized the opportunity to jump in. "That never stopped Maegor the Cruel, however." He held up a finger to Pycelle, who was undoubtedly going to chime in that Maegor the Cruel predated Baelor the Blessed and that the Sept of King's Landing had a different name at the time. "If we continue the belief that it was an unknown invader, we do not know whether he was an exceptionally pragmatic Dothraki, or a third party we failed to consider entirely."

"Fair enough," Robert answered, more than happy to steer the discussion back to the matter he was most interested in. "However, that leaves the question of the Targaryen girl unanswered. Varys, are you still able to fulfill the decision from the last meeting?" Ned glowered at the mention of the debate that led to his (temporary) resignation.

"Unfortunately not, your Grace. With all my little birds gone, I cannot hope to carry out the plan as it stands now. I have no way to transport the necessary supplies, pay a catspaw, or even inform them who the target is." Varys seemed to be growing annoyed events were transpiring that he couldn't control. Robert was growing annoyed that this damnable woman was out there doing Stranger-knows-what with nobody to track her.  
"But you still have others with her, no? What about the exiled Northman?"

"Ser Jorah Mormont, yes," Varys replied. Ned's demeanor grew even colder upon hearing the man's name. Robert felt a bit of sympathy for a man exiled for his homeland, but another told him the Bear Islander brought it upon himself. Play fool's games, win fool's prizes. "He will still remain a valuable informant, but I fear that his ability to provide any further aid may have been... _compromised_."

Robert arched an eyebrow. "What the hells do you mean with that, Spider?"

The eunuch's expression became dour for a moment. "Due to his extensive interactions with the Targaryen girl after a long isolation, it seems his view of the Targaryen girl has softened somewhat. He may have even grown attached to her, for all I know. I fear that if we asked him to act against her in any meaningful way, he may turn traitor. Besides, I cannot contact him for several moons' turns. Many of my little birds sang roosted in Vaes Dothrak, and it takes time to build new nests." Damn Varys and his bird metaphors.

Robert felt himself growing more irate by the moment. "So are we just sitting here with our thumbs up our arses? Is there nothing we can do? Why do I even _have_ a Master of Whispers if all he does is blather rather than act?!"

Varys proved good at maintaining his composure in the face of an angry king. Unsurprising, considering how he worked for Aerys. "There are other contacts I may resort to, your Grace, but I fear that they may not be as reliable as my conventional methods."

"What about the Faceless Men?" Baelish suggested. "They have never been known to fail a contract."

"Unless you are willing to procure the funds yourself to cover their contract," Varys japed, "I fear that it is out of our buying power. Besides, I believe nobody would trust you alone with large sums of money for a month." He earned several chuckles from the rest of the council.

Robert grumbled a little. Every minute they dallied away was a minute where the Targaryen whore plotted to usurp the throne unimpeded. "Very well, Varys. Use your 'other contacts' if you must, but I want her _dead_!"

The cockless wonder silently nodded, while Ned simply glared at him. _I told him the matter's done and I'll hear no more of it. I love the oaf, but if he thinks he can challenge me and resign again..._ Thankfully, Ned stayed silent.

Robert stood up, finished the lees of his wine, and stifled a belch. "I believe the meeting is concluded, then. Now if you will all excuse me, I need to plan a royal hunt." _Lyanna wouldn't make me want to spend every waking moment away from here_.


End file.
